


When Angels Fall

by Cthulhu777



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 05:48:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5236592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cthulhu777/pseuds/Cthulhu777
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angel goes to visit a dying Willow and decides to intentionally give up being a good guy. It doesn't go well...</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Angels Fall

Brooke slouched in her seat at the nurses station. Besides the occasional rush of tourists thrill-seeking a paranormal experience, not much went on in the quaint sleepy town of Athens, Ohio. Brooke briefly smirked amused by that single thought. Silly tourists didn't know that there are no such things as ghosts...Brooke had lived in one of the most haunted cites in America most of her life, if ghosts were real she would of met one by now. 

 

Brooke spun in her chair thinking, 'Honestly, anybody that truly believes in things such as monsters, vampires, werewolf's, ghosts or any other made up nonsense has got to be some of the most gullible people on the planet.'

 

While spinning, Brooke's eyes caught wind of a dark figure standing a couple of rooms back from where her back had been facing. She abruptly forced her body to a screeching halt; her stomach still spinning in the process. 

 

Her eyes did a double take before realizing that the dark figure was actually a man dressed entirely in black. He was just standing there, staring at the closed door of room 212. 

 

Brooke could have sworn that her heart skipped a few beats altogether upon realizing that that room belonged to ninety-six-year-old Miss Rosenberg. The ninety-six-year-old Miss Rosenberg who had been admitted to that room four and a half months ago. The expected-to-croak-any-day-now Miss Rosenberg. 

 

Ironically, for a few solid moments Brooke full-heartily believe in the grim reaper. If the grim reaper was real she would imagine that he...it...would look a lot like the man currently standing outside Miss Rosenberg's room. Tall, pale, dark hair, dark eyes, all dark attire, an expressionless look on his face, about to quietly slip into the rooms of the old and sick and steal their souls!--or whatever it is that grim reapers do. 

 

Brooke resisted the urge to dive roll out of sight of this man as a second wave of shock hit her. If this man wasn't the grim reaper then--she glanced at her phone and saw that it was 2:26AM--he was some kind of creepy freak...a creepy freak who was violating hospital visitation hours, a creepy freak who very much might have weapons hidden in that leather duster he was wearing, a creepy freak that she was going to have to ask to leave. 

 

At that current moment in time, she was the only registered nurse on med surge. She had one CNA who worked with her but Katie was over in the cafeteria on her break, leaving Brooke all alone to deal with the grim reaper!...or some crazy man...either way...

 

Forget her heart skipping a few beats, it full on stopped working for a few precious moments as the man looked straight at her. Brooke shifted uncomfortably in her chair, letting her hand hover over a button that was installed underneath the counter to alert security. 

 

“Don't do that,” the man stated, shyly approaching Brooke's station. 

 

He must have noticed Brooke's tension because then he quickly added the word, “'please'.” Forcing her quivering fingers to stop from pressing the button, Brooke inhaled, gaining enough courage to look the man straight in the eyes. 

 

His face remained stoic but his eyes had the faintest hint of sadness in them. 

 

“Visiting hours are from 8AM to 7PM,” Brooke managed to cough out. 

 

The man stood there for a moment with his mouth hanging ajar, pondering what to say. 

 

“Willow,” the man said Miss Rosenberg's first name in a rather uncomfortable manner. “I've known her for a long time...” he paused. “Just...please let me go into see her. I've come a very long way and I know that her time here is almost up.” 

 

Brooke blinked. Well...she wasn't suppose to let him, but as a nurse they were suppose to check on the patients' vitals every four hours, which woke most of her patients up anyway... So what would be the harm? 

 

“Sure...go on in. J-just next time come during regular visiting hours please.” 

 

The man nodded his head ever so slightly before striding anxiously back to Miss Rosenberg's room. 

 

Brooke breathed in relief. Now that that was over, she pulled out her compact tablet; she was free to browse the internet until Katie came back. 

 

Angel pinched the bridge of his nose, taking deep breaths, in order to calm himself. 

 

He glanced up--there she was. Fast asleep, her bony wrist tucked delicately underneath her chin. She looked so fragile...so old...God, it had been a long while. An extremely long while. After Buffy had passed he hadn't made it a priority to keep up with old friends. It had been too painful. Each remaining acquaintance of Buffy's--Willow, Xander, Dawn, hell even Faith and Spike--only served to remind him that they were alive and she was dead. He had parted ways with all of his former allies decades ago. And now they were all dead except Willow. However--Angel's eyes scanned her up and down--she was soon to follow. She was so close to death he could smell it. 

 

Angel took a few hushed steps towards towards Willow's sleeping form until he was standing over her. If he could breathe he would be holding his breath. Even though--in the back of his mind--he knew that Willow was close enough to passing on that almost nothing would wake her up. Let alone a few simple noises. 

 

He stared down upon her; his eyes feeling heavier than usual. “Willow,” he whispered hoarsely. 

 

There were too many things all at once that he wanted to say but he didn't know where to begin--He's sorry for disappearing from her life over half a decade ago after Buffy had passed...He's sorry for not standing by her side while she buried her best friend...He's sorry for not continuing his support of her and the other Scoobies of their ongoing fight against evil...He's sorry for also not attending any of their other friends funerals either...He's sorry for never showing up when she was in trouble or in need of a friend...But most of all he's sorry for not getting here earlier to tell her that he's sorry-- 

 

He sighed running his hand through his hair. There was nothing he could do or say now to make up for fifty three years of lost contact. Sometimes he could be such a fool. That was fifty three years he could have had friends to help out and talk to. But he had been so scared that if he were to stick around them they would end up dying. It seemed that anybody he had ever managed to become close to ended up dying at a young age. First it had happened to Doyle, next to his beloved Cordy, then to Fred, Wesley, Gunn. They all died young and for what? Because he had drug them into his bull shit quest for an unattainable redemption. In a way he had killed them. 

 

They would have been better without him so he figured that Willow and the others were better off without him. However, that was part of his problem. Fifty three years of completely cutting himself off from everybody had made him desperately lonely. 

 

It felt like he had a curse on top of his curse and over time this had made him weak and confused. He didn't want to do this anymore. He didn't want to care about who dies, who lives, who is evil, who is good. Nothing he did mattered. He could save hundreds of thousands of people and it still wouldn't bring back the thousands that he had slaughtered. It still wouldn't take away his curse. It still wouldn't make him normal. It still wouldn't bring back the people he had loved and lost. He was done, just done. 

 

Angel pulled up a chair, staring at Willow with envy as he sat down. If he could trade places with her he would jump at the chance. Whoever said it was better to have loved and lost then to never have loved at all clearly never knew true love in it's purest form. 

 

“Pfffft!,” taunted a voice from the shadow. 

 

If at all possible, Angel's still figure seemed to lock up and freeze even more. Oh no! Not now! 

 

“And that's why love is for suckers,” Angelus seemed to have manifested out of the darkest corner of the room. “But you and I both know how much of a sucker you are. But hey!” Angelus gave a self-pleased laugh and even winked at his ensouled self. “We can't all be geniuses like me.” 

 

Angel's frown deepened. He knew his depression and loneliness were at an all time low when his brooding sessions turned into a full blown Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde battle. This hadn't happened since--

 

“Not since when Connor, the nicest little shit in the whole entire universe, decided to repay us for being his daddy by sending us to a watery tomb,” Angelus reminded, placing the palm of his hand over his heart in a mocking sort of manner as if he hadn't a care in the world about that thought. 

 

If Angel envied anything about his demon it was his ability to not dwell on things. Angel would brood while Angelus would go out, extract revenge, and move on. 

 

“Except that time,” Angelus paused, his eyebrows raising slightly in amusement. “You called on me to appear, remember?” 

 

Angel cocked his head to the side thoughtfully. 

 

“That's right, you remember that incident perfectly,” Angelus continued, encouraged. “You called on me because you were so heartbroken that that sweet innocent baby you once held and loved wholeheartedly was willing to sacrifice his own blood in the blink of an eye...Also what would have happened if we actually had gotten to meet up with Cordy that night. Sparks? The love of the century? Hey! Guess we'll never know cause, you know, she's long been dead!” 

 

Angel snapped his head back, his heart filling with venom. His thoughts would linger on that single 'what if?' all too often. Until that 'what if?' turned to nothing more than pure regret and bitterness. “You listen to me! You're going to shut up! And if you ever talk about Cordy like that again I'll--” 

 

“You'll what?,” Angelus interrupted. 

 

Angelus continued conversationally, hanging on the back of Angel's chair like some sort of parasite, “Kill me? Then you kill you. And if you die you're more than well aware that you're going way down below, aren't you? Remember when good ol' Buffster tried to send me there? But she ended up sending you there instead? The irony, hilarious! Those are classic memories right there.

 

“The sickening smell of raw meat, the constant screaming in the background, the utter feeling of despair. Oh and let's not forget the rack shall we? Being tortured by devils down there really gives you a sort of appreciation for the demons that manage to crawl their way up here on the Earth's surface. Most of them are nothing compared to the art that has managed to perfect itself down there,” Angelus painfully reminded him. 

 

“You would know after the hundred years you spent down there. The century that almost did you in! The Devil's nearly had you convinced that you had nothing left...nothing left but me, that is,” Angelus taunted softly, his voice echoing in Angel's ears. 

 

“They were impressed by me and what I had done. They wanted you to become me. Help them and they would have stopped torturing you. It was an offer that you nearly broke down and took even with that beautiful, glowing soul of yours inside you. You know once you die, and eventually you will, once again I'll be the only thing you have going for ya,” Angelus claimed happily. 

 

Angel's brow furrowed, his head slouching over slightly in defeat. Angelus was right. He hated it when his demon started to make sense. 

 

“So I won't die then,” Angel stated stubbornly, turning to his side in a purposeless attempt to ignore something that was in his head. 

 

“Angel, Angel, Angel...you just celebrated your 350th birthday not that long ago, and that's not including the hundred years you spent in Hell. I know you're tired of living the way you do. Locking yourself away from the rest of the world because everyone you've ever cared about has long passed on. Sometimes staking yourself seems like such a wonderful option doesn't it?” Now it was Angelus's turn to pace back and forth and glare at Willow in a jealous sort of way. 

 

“Hey! Remember back when she was an innocent virgin?” Angelus commented cheerfully. 

 

Angel stood up, facing his demon. His demon that wore his face. His clothes. His voice! 

 

“And why would you want me to stake myself? Aren't you forgetting something? I die, you die,” Angel re-quoted Angelus, his words beginning to lose their edge. 

 

Angelus's smile grew. 

 

“You've been in control for the past 178 years. With the exception of three months, six days, fourteen hours, and thirty seven minutes. But you're forgetting on one very crucial element: I'm part of you!! You fucking idiot! I've had to endure 178 years of brooding, of you dilly-dallying around trying to 'help the helpless', and, dare I say it, occasionally making friends! I'm tired of it, Angel! I'm tired of living in your head!” 

 

Angelus paused almost as if to let steam exit from his ears so he could cool off. His smile faded, turning into a twisted scowl. “I figure that if you can't see that living this way is entirely pointless for you then at least in Hell I'll get to enjoy watching you be tortured.” 

 

Angel let Angelus's words sink in. His mouth opened and then shut again. He wanted to say something. To fight back, but after 178 years of seeking an impossible redemption he was tired of it. He was tired of feeling bad for what his demon did all those years ago. He was tired of his mind replaying bits of encouragement once given to him by long dead comrades. He was tired of having this constant burden of dealing with his alter ego. But most of all he was tired of being alone. Angel's head sunk in defeat. 

 

“You win,” Angel muttered an octave above audible. 

 

Angelus's grin grew enormous. He stood louder and prouder then Angel could ever recall. 

 

“You're gonna stake yourself?” Angelus bounced up and down cheerfully on his toes. 

 

Angel glared up at his demon and swore with coldness in his heart, “No, but I'm done with being good.” 

 

Angelus stood smirking. His black eyes scanned his ensouled other carefully, as if to make sure he wasn't lying, even though they lived inside each other's heads and should already know the true answer. “Good,” Angelus simply answered. 

 

“No, it's not 'good.'” Angel said dryly. 

 

“Maybe you're not so bad all the tim--” Angelus's sentence cut short by the beeping of Willow's monitor warning that her vitals were reaching critical levels. 

 

Angelus quickly turned his attention back to Angel, “The nurse, Angel. Start with her. She was already terrified of you. She'll be an easy victim,” Angelus pointed out before fading away into the darkness as if he had never even been there in the first place. But Angel knew better, Angelus was always there somewhere. 

 

Brooke was sweating bullets. Having to use a defibrillator on somebody was never a non-stressful task, but having a tall creepy guy hovering over her shoulder while she attempted to resuscitate somebody added a whole other level of unneeded stress to the task. 

 

Normally when somebody's life hung in the balance she would have had her CNA call other nurses over from the ER to make use of all of her resources. The exception to this is when she knew somebody was dying from ripe old age. 

 

Willow Rosenberg was a ninety-six-year-old women who had been exceptionally healthy her entire life up until the last four months. Brooke could only imagine what this woman's eyes must have seen with nearly a century under their belt. 

 

But right now she had other concerns. Namely--her eyes caught sight of him in her peripherals--that she had this gut feeling that she might die here with Miss Rosenberg tonight. 

 

He was standing close enough behind her that she should have heard his breathing. Instead of the warmth of somebody’s breath, the man was putting out an eerie cold presence. 

 

The flat-line ran across Miss Rosenberg's monitor. 

 

Buckets of cold sweat began to pour off Brooke. 

 

Now that Brooke was unable to resuscitate whoever Miss Rosenberg had been to this man then maybe--in his mind--this might actually give him a reason to kill her. 

 

Brooke spun on her heel, putting as much distance between her and the man as she possibly could in one motion. She faced him. 

 

Dark eyes were staring at Miss Rosenberg's dead body blankly. A deep frown seemed to be permanently plastered across his face. He looked sickly pale, and wore dark circles underneath his eyes like badges. He would have been a fairly handsome man if it wasn't for the whole creepy serial killer, deathly ill vibe he was giving off. 

 

“I'm afraid--” Brooke began. 

 

“She's dead...” the man unknowingly completed her sentence. 

 

Brooke nervously scratched at the back of her neck as an awkward silence fell between them. The man stood as still as a statue. 

 

Dealing with the family and fellow loved ones of the recently deceased was always the crappy part of her job. Made her want to quit every time. Luckily, with medicine as advanced as it was this didn't happen often. However, there still was no cure for old age. 

 

“I'm sorry for your loss, sir. I'll go inform the mortuary department,” Brooke finally said, each word stinging as they slithered out of her lips. 

 

A pause. 

 

The man's eyebrows sank lower than they already were, giving him intimidating facial features. His eyes scanned her...hungrily? 

 

Brooke gulped. This wasn't a normal reaction somebody should have to the passing of a loved one. She knew in that moment there was something sinister about this man. She knew in this moment she wasn't going to be presented with the chance to live nearly as long as Miss Rosenberg had gotten to. 

 

She felt a harsh icy hand grip her wrist with bone crushing strength. 

 

“I'm sorry too,” the man whispered, half sadistically and half with sincerity. Before he used her wrist to propel her body back into him. The last memory Brooke had was her neck twisting in the unholiest of ways. And...lights out.


End file.
